Cerulecrimson
by Syphira
Summary: You never understand why you meet a certain someone. Why you become friends with them. Why you love, or why you loathe them. But, it's okay; Because, for some reason, they are always there to help you; Set in the 1800s; OC Included; American-RoTexan Relationships; Rated K because content is still pretty suitable to me.


**_A.N: For those who have problems with original characters, I highly recommend you do _not _read this Fanfiction then. This fanfic is based off of the 1830s - and has a loose "pairing" ship to it involving Texas and America, if you catch my drift. Texas just so happens to be my Original Character, and America is obviously Alfred F. Jones._**

**_So, while I own Amarilla Salinas (Texas), I do not own Hetalia._**

**_That rightfully belongs to Himaruya._**

**_Read at your own risk!_**

* * *

Here she lay – sitting as a lady should on a chair near the doorstep, and a book within her hands. Her legs are crossed; They show no scars. She wears shoes that are suitable for a schoolgirl, and a dress that covers most – if not all – of her body. The dark chocolate locks are propped up into a correctly created bun, and nothing but powder and makeup caked onto her face to seem more proper to outsiders than she need be. In all honesty, she hated this constant chore – the chore of hiding her face. On the outside, she must look pure; She must look feminine in order to gain a natural amount of allies, but at times she wondered if there was really a point to wearing a dress to cover a scar or two. She would see a lot of the Old World chatting their lives away when they were busy, and even then those countries were often as stern as a schoolmarm when it came to their work and their colonies. She was aware of how ruthless she could be – how ruthless she _would _be, when it came to being out of this outfit of deception.

She was Texas – the _Republic _of Texas.

And she wouldn't allow anyone to try to cause a faltering move in the dream she chose to chase.

However, there were times where she just could not _take _being a Republic and taking care of a few states or two. At times, she would walk to the stables in the back and begin to sob on her horses; She would refuse to show this side to those she had encountered and taken away from when she fought against the Mexican in a war for territory. They could consider her a weakling and step all over her; That had happened to Mexico, did it not..? Eduardo could not stand the fact of losing the female, and in the end she was able capable of taking more than just her territory and sense of both freedom and independence with her. Now, she has allowed herself to channel any sort of anger or regret into discipline – often getting after those that she owned _even _if there was invalid reasoning or a reason filled with nothing but falsity. She harbors nothing but fear into the territory's eyes, and she would never regret a second of it.

That is, until, she starts to ponder about her future.

The female stands up from her chair and dusts off her dress. The day is still young, and she begins to ponder about how her day will go from here on out. She digs into a stitched up pocket inside of her dress and pulls out a handkerchief – readily putting the cloth to her cheek until she hears a clearing of a throat, a tapping of a foot. She immediately removed it and placed it back in her gloved hands – turning her heel into the direction of where the sounds were coming from, and then her whole body. Her face of regret immediately formed into a face of both surprise and boredom – at least, somewhere in the middle did it stop. She placed her book to her chest, the height of the figure that she now realized was a man somewhat towering over her with his shadow. She watched as her tiny Corgi burst out from inside the house and ran up to him – yapping away at what he thought was a stranger, but what she knew for a fact wasn't. It seemed that he waited for an invitation, and she lifted a finger to call him over – turning her back to him and allowing her accent to echo into the sky while she called back her dog.

The man that she had just locked eyes with was known as Alfred F. Jones, and she can't quite recall the day she first met him. She could only remember having a body of a female that was less than 10 years old, but she could have sworn she met him as a child under Spain's grasp. He sat in the vintage dining room with his hands on his legs, and her Corgi began to dash in circles around the American; Alfred simply smiled and laughed – allowing his hand to lower and coax her pet to recognize and be familiar with his scent. The female could not help but flash a wry grin at their interaction – taking the tray filled with tiny cakes, coffee, and tea and placing it onto the table before taking her own seat to face him in this direction. She had placed her book onto the counter with the handkerchief, and had taken her gloves off while she waited for Alfred to settle himself and leave her Corgi – Arwel – alone and to abscond into his tiny bed located in her tiny cottage. He made a comment about her dog and her house, and in return she replied with a tiny compliment about how well-dressed he was for today. The two exchanged facial expressions, before Alfred decided to ask about her well-being.

She repeated the simple question to herself before picking up the teacup and taking a light sip of the tea the Texan had made for herself. She placed the cup in her lap after contemplating her answer, the southern drawl obviously visible with every word she spoke. She fibbed and said she was completely content with how life was treating her for the moment – a light chuckle that could be considered half-hearted erupting from her lips, and a light clearing of her throat after she was done with it. She had not bothered to open the eyes she closed in order to look him directly in the eyes. Out of all the men she had met and grown up with in her life, she found Alfred to be one that she refused to give eye contact with. Her countless owners – the constant others she considered allies for helping her out with Mexico; None of them were the least bit knowing of how the female worked unless it involved Spain, or Alfred.

And as she knew quite well: Alfred seemed to know what made her tick in the countless times they had conversed together.

So, she often hid her expressions behind her eyes.

He let loose a frown and scoffed at her reaction, making her instantly flutter her eyes open. He spoke out her name in a stern manner – Amarilla, Amarilla, Amarilla – and slacked off showing his mannerisms in this conversation by putting his elbow on the table and his head on the side of his hand in which the palm did not show. His facial expression no longer one flashing a casual smile and gleaming generosity, but serious and intimidating – in fact, a stare so hard and firm, that several countries would often quiet themselves whenever they realized how dead serious the American would become. He took a drink of his coffee and a small bite of the cake before giving her his full undivided attention. He would open his mouth to speak out as to why she would brush him aside in such a manner like that; his lips moving at a constant rate to practically fill the gap with what could be considered a lecture. She did not wince. She did not bite her lip.

Instead, she allowed her eyes to become narrowed.

"_Amarilla __**Salinas**_."

The grunt caused her to immediately slide out her chair and drop her teacup – Arwel now yipping at the mess that was on the floor after running back down the stairs, and Amarilla paying no notice to it. Her hands would ball into fists, and her temper immediately unleashed itself into nothing but words. She would question why he would attempt to goad his way into learning about her personal thoughts, and he would rebuttal by stating that he was only looking out for her – as he knew quite well it had only been a year of being a Republic. They would go at it in an argument, Amarilla shooing the dog away before stomping in her shoes and looking at him dead in the eye. She wasn't as tall as she could've been – and the height wasn't much of a problem because of what she wore.

Alfred would mention how selfish she had become ever since the war, and Amarilla would deny it in such a manner, that it was almost impossible to attempt to reason with her at times like this. He continued his countless inquires, and Amarilla would begin to take several steps back and attempt to avoid the answer. She would then raise her arms up in the air and tell him to step away – asking him to leave the house and to never come back, despite not meaning a word she was spouting out of her mouth for the moment. She was immature, she was childish and Alfred knew that as a newborn country, there were a lot of things the Personifications attempted to get away with on their own. Trying to win an argument by kicking the guest out of the house is one thing.

Jones then asked about her feelings of being in power, and she froze to refrain from doing anything else.

In fact, she was pretty sure both of her arms had dropped to her sides and some "dirt" was irritating her eyes.

Alfred would remain silent for a few seconds before allowing his voice to project itself in such a quiet, yet soothing tone that Amarilla would not even be able to muster up and do on her own at this point. He would take a few more steps up to her and grab her hands – gently kissing both of them before pulling her close enough that she wouldn't be able to avert her gaze all too easily. She would feel her breath hitch, her lip tremble, and the lipstick she applied to her lips begin to smear once she felt one of her hands quietly reach to touch her cheek to see if she was dreaming or if this was completely real.

She could've sworn that he kissed her on the forehead, and that was definitely the trigger.

Within seconds, she could feel the makeup running down her face; the sudden tears that finally decided to overflow after being held in for so long causing her cheeks to turn red from embarrassment. At this point, she attempted to call him something mean but could never muster it out of her head. She wanted to call him an idiot, or a freak, but in the end had to tell herself that none of that was true. She could never truly say that to him because the Texan considered that lying to herself. She suddenly felt a few fingers tugging off the bun she made for herself – hair that had been considerably short a few months ago now down to her waist. It was only a matter of time that Alfred had brought her into an embrace – keeping both arms tightly locked around her body to soothe her crying, regardless of the outfit becoming stained or messy. She would constantly mutter the question of why into his ear – not comprehending why he hadn't left or even _attempted_ to threaten her because of how much of a "vile creature" she was. He would ignore her and reach for the handkerchief – having trouble without letting go, mind you – and attempt to hush her by taking this advantage to wipe off the makeup that covered the _true _reflection that she refused to show without some sort of _enhancement_.

Alfred seemed surprised at how much her face had changed from growing up so much.

He would whisper in her ear about how she needn't worry about impressing others with just her looks and appearances. The American tucked her hair behind the ears and allowed her to cry a little more into his shoulders before pulling back and letting her go.

Amarilla would feel her cheek again with widened eyes before flashing a small smile at him – resisting the urge to punch him in the face.

_It was then that she said to herself: "The truest friends will wipe off any disguise you try ta hide behind . . ._"


End file.
